


Gravity

by kaeltale



Series: Gravity: Fallen Angels [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Blasphemy (probably), Demisexuality, Fallen!Aziraphale, Fluff, Grey-Asexuality, Happy Ending, Humor, M/M, Other, Transgender themes, but in the most wholesome way possible, falling, god speaks, ineffable gender, ineffable sexuality, very mild angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-28
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2020-07-24 01:55:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20018329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaeltale/pseuds/kaeltale
Summary: Falling starts with a question, and Crowley has fallen twice. The first time he asked himself, “Can I choose a different path?” The second time, he stood under the wing of a flustered angel, and thought, “Can I keep you?”This is a story of self-discovery, trust, and courage—and it certainly has nothing to do with forgiveness.





	1. Mistakes Were Made

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my wonderful betas [Dordean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dordean/pseuds/Dordean) and [merulanoir](https://archiveofourown.org/users/merulanoir/pseuds/merulanoir) who leave the best flailing comments and make writing Worth It every time, and to my Brit Picker [CarmillaCarmine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CarmillaCarmine); YOU ROCK!
> 
> There are multiple references to Other Things I Love in this fic, including Lucifer (TV) and Douglas Adams, and probably other stuff too. I wonder how many will be noticed? Hmm.
> 
> Enjoy! Feedback is welcome. ❤️

###  **The Voice of God: Concerning Crowley**

Falling starts with a question, and Crowley has fallen twice. The first time he asked himself, “Can I choose a different path?” —and I answered him with a definitive _yes_. The second time, he stood under the wing of a flustered angel, and thought, “Can I keep you?”

Falling, in both ways, is a terrifying experience.

To understand Crowley's fear, you only need to understand that demons, even the nice ones, have trust issues. They are too clever to feel Love, having been so sorely robbed of it once already, and they spend a small eternity convincing each other of this even before I get around to creating the Earth (which is why Hell is such a lousy place for summer romances).

Crowley _is_ a clever demon though; he knows all that talk is rubbish as well as he knows how important it is to keep up appearances. This is because Crowley possesses a healthy amount of doubt; enough to be skeptical of My Love without dismissing the notion of love entirely.

So it's fear, not ignorance, that keeps him from naming what he feels for the next six-thousand years.

However, for love to flourish, it requires more than acknowledgement—it requires a leap—and as anyone who's fallen twice will tell you, there's nothing like gravity to inspire the fear of God.

###  **PART 1: Mistakes Were Made**

As they dine at the Ritz, Crowley notices that the food tastes better, life feels kinder, and it’s a little easier than yesterday to stop acting like the demon-pretending-to-be-a-certain-kind-of-human, and start becoming Crowley: who-didn’t-mean-to-Fall-but-hung-out-with-the-wrong-people.

They leave together, after two helpings of dessert and just enough of champagne, and when Crowley closes the driver-side door to the Bentley he lets his sunglasses creep down to watch Aziraphale wiggle into the passenger seat—alive and whole and very much _not_ a pile of cinders. No matter how long Crowley ogled him over lunch, it wasn't enough to make up for the multiple near-death experiences of the past 24 hours.

“Where to next, angel?”

Aziraphale pouts, like he’s about to ask for something tedious and he doesn’t want Crowley to feel overly put upon.

“I was hoping,” his eyes twinkle, “that we might go for a stroll.”

“That’s a bit last century, don’t you think?” Crowley takes a moment to appreciate Aziraphale’s responding sulk, his chest puffed out with indignation, and a half-hidden grin tugging his lips. He wouldn't give a damn if the angel wanted to read him Bible verse for the rest of the evening (ok, maybe a damn or two, but mostly because his ears would be ringing), so long as they were together.

“Any preference where?”

“Somewhere other than St. James Park, perhaps?” Aziraphale’s face blooms into a full smile, and Crowley's chest thuds out a very unnecessary response.

Yeah, St. James might be awkward, he thinks, in light of recent events. Would be a Heaven of a time explaining that earlier kidnapping scene to the ducks. Berkeley Square's just down the road though, and right across from his flat. Convenient (and romantic, and just a bit suggestive, but Crowley is only vaguely aware that he’s thinking of it like that).

He nudges his glasses back into place and turns the ignition. The Bentley purrs, as though it's also happy to not be on fire and it would like some attention for it. When Crowley says nothing, and jumps the car into motion, it powers on its cassette player in a way that can only be described as smug.

> _“Dining at the Ritz, we'll meet at nine precisely.  
>  I will pay the bill, you taste the wine.   
> Driving back in style, in my saloon will do quite nicely—”_

Crowley flips the cassette player off and frowns. Cheeky hunk of metal. Didn't even have the decency to start the song at the beginning.

“Oh, I don't mind music,” Aziraphale says in that tone he uses when he explains his hours of operation over the phone, knowing perfectly well that he's being a twat. “You can leave it on if you like.”

“Would be rude making you talk over it.”

 _Smooth recovery_ , Crowley smirks, _real smooth_. He’ll have to have a serious chat with the Bentley later, about the importance of not selling out the emotional state of its owner.

“Besides, the park's not far.”

Without music, Crowley doesn’t feel as much need to rampage down the street. Instead he takes his time, letting Aziraphale take charge of the conversation, and enjoying the way his every word sounds like a promise. There’s a rare book auction next weekend at Sotheby's ( _just_ think _what kind of people those poor books might end up with_ ) and Aziraphale needs a ride, and there's a new kebab restaurant that Aziraphale has heard good things about ( _can you remember the last time we had decent kebabs?_ ), and he’s considering a trip to the South Downs to look at properties—for holiday retreats ( _wouldn't it be wonderful to get out of the city now and then?_ ). Crowley doesn't need to ask if he's invited.

When they arrive at the park, Aziraphale stares at his door latch a moment too long, and sighs.

“Wait.” Crowley jumps out of the car, and tries not to look too eager as he makes his way to the passenger side.

He pulls open the door, offering a hand to the (blushing) angel. Aziraphale takes it and gets to his feet—but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he takes Crowley’s hand and slots it in the crook of his arm like an old-fashioned dandy, then pats it into place.

This is… new. Crowley gulps down the sudden lump in his throat.

“There we are,” Aziraphale says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world to walk arm-in-arm with another person. “What a lovely evening. I do enjoy going for a stroll at dusk.”

Crowley makes a non-commital grunt and uses his free hand to push his sunglasses flush to his face. "Not a bad way to kick off the day after Armageddon."

He lets the angel take the lead (as though he has a choice) down the centre strip of gravel. Berkeley Square isn’t very large, or really a park—not compared to St. James or Battersea Park—but it feels intimate with the row houses walling it in, and it's empty enough for the illusion of privacy. Despite his energy, Aziraphale seems almost meditative in this space, pausing here and there to breathe in the cold humidity, and the tension in Crowley’s shoulders eventually starts to disappear.

Maybe he was reading too much into this simple linking of arms. There's nothing threatening in it after all.

Not that it's unpleasant… just worrying. Any kindness from Aziraphale turns Crowley into a box full of contradictions. He wants and fears, loves and hates, hopes and mourns, all at once. He's never sure what to do with it all. Technically he started it this time, with the door (since when was he a chivalrous demon?), but that doesn't make it right for the angel to reciprocate. Aziraphale never escalates their intimacy, even when he mirrors it from a safe distance.

Unless that's just it; simple, friendly reciprocation. Crowley wonders, for a moment, just how many other people Aziraphale has strolled through Mayfair with. The angel’s always had friends, in a manner of speaking, that Crowley rarely met. Different spheres of influence (with the exception of Wilde, who knew everyone worth knowing).

There’s no bitterness in that thought, only longing, and it makes Crowley’s skin feel too tight.

“Have you noticed the birds tonight?” Aziraphale stops along the line of benches, and gives Crowley a nervous, meaningful look. “Reminds me of a song. A rather famous one, I think.”

Crowley focuses his ears, and yeah, there's something shrill and chipper going on above their heads somewhere. It's not bad.

“The Lark?” Crowley guesses, because he can’t imagine Aziraphale listening to anything later than the 1850’s, and Glinka was part of Aziraphale's Russian composer phase.

“No, no. Modernly famous! This serenade is the nightingale's, and it fits the locale.”

Oh! Oh—. Modernly famous? _Really?_ Crowley doubts Aziraphale knows the meaning of the word 'modern', but… well, there had been one angel dining at the Ritz today.

“You and your bebop.” Crowley quirks a brow.

“You’re never letting that go, are you?” Aziraphale huffs, and pulls Crowley down with him as he takes a seat on the bench.

“Not a chance.” Crowley smiles, just a little, and relents.

He stretches out next to the angel, trying his best to seem at ease. If his arm happens to land on the back of Aziraphale’s side of the bench, it can’t be helped. The benches here are shorter than the ones at St. James Park, and that’s not Crowley’s fault.

“Romantic, isn’t it?” Aziraphale muses, not seeming to mind the arm behind him.

“Yeah, I suppose it is.”

Then Crowley hears himself ask before he can bite his tongue, “That something you go in for?”

He shouldn't have said that, but he's too used to speaking his mind around the angel.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale tuts, his voice conspiratorial, “would it surprise you if I did?”

Crowley can feel heat creeping up his face. Aziraphale is watching him with those shy, sidelong glances; the kind that are worth performing miracles for.

“Ehhh-rr-mph—” He slurs, eventually hitting real words. “No. Not really. Just. What are you getting at?”

Aziraphale sits back firmly against Crowley's arm, scooting just a hair closer, and rests a hand on Crowley's knee. His eyes scrunch into that small, helpless, I-need-you-to-do-this-for-me look, and Crowley feels pinned in place, jaw hanging uselessly.

_No, no, no, this is a bad idea, angel! What are you doing?_

“I've been thinking. About the way things have been, for so long. How there have been… _things_ I couldn't allow myself to—. Well, I suppose neither of us could consider. But it's always been there, hasn't it? I'm not blind, Crowley,” The angel prattles, his eyes never finding quite the right angle to look at both the floor and Crowley's face (his lips, or his eyes? —no, can't be the eyes).

“Aren't you wondering the same thing?” he asks, more like a plea.

“Questioning the way things are,” Crowley draws out, feeling stiff at the edges, “is dangerous for an angel.”

“Not so much for a demon though?”

He knows what Aziraphale is asking him to say, but it's not something that can be said aloud. It's not even a matter of sides anymore—the Ultimate Scorekeeper is the jealous type.

“Only if the demon has something to lose,” Crowley grits his teeth.

Sanity. Sanity is something Crowley could still lose. He came close to that when the bookshop burned down.

“After what we've been through,” Aziraphale presses on, “hasn't it occurred to you that we might lose it anyway? Aren't you tired of keeping up appearances?”

That stings more than Aziraphale could know. The ache goes all the way to a place in Crowley that boils with millennia-old wounds.

“The Universe has never been kind. It's better to be thankful with what w—” Crowley coughs, catching himself. “With what _you've_ got.”

A shadow, like doubt, passes over Aziraphale's face.

“Oh, but it doesn't have to be that way.”

He takes Crowley's jaw in one hand… fuck! Aziraphale is supposed to be the rock! He's the one who keeps them on the straight and narrow. Crowley _wants_ this new thing (badly), there's no stopping the want, but they can't!

 _You stupid, stupid angel! Words like that are_ rebellion _. Shut it before Someone notices!_ Crowley wants to say—

—but Aziraphale is leaning closer, his eyes full of something soft and terrible, and Crowley has a split second to stop him, because he's always known what this is between them, without Aziraphale having to spell it out, and it's really bloody irresponsible to pretend this is in any way necessary communication.

This isn't the Gluttony of deviled eggs and angel food cake, the Avarice of book hoarding, or the Sloth of trading temptations and miracles. This is a conflict of interest in the Ineffable Scheme. Crowley's pretty sure there's a limit to what the Almighty will overlook.

“Angel, don't,” Crowley can barely whisper, so he holds up a hand to hang between himself and Aziraphale's mouth. “‘s not worth it.”

Aziraphale takes the hand and pulls it down, rubbing his thumb on Crowley's palm. _He's shaking, too_ , Crowley realises. Of course; he's scared. That thought gives Crowley the will to do what needs to be done.

“Look, Aziraphale—I'm not going to pretend this is alright. You don't know what it's like being a demon, and I'm not keen on you finding out.”

“Don't patronise me.” Aziraphale removes his hand from Crowley's cheek. His shoulders seem twice as broad when he holds them in that may-I-remind-you-that-I-wield-a-flaming-sword way, but Crowley's already seen his bluff. “It's not a sin to feel the way I—the way _we_ do.”

“You think my lot Fell because we sinned?” Crowley goes for a harsher tone, using the one subject that has always silenced them whenever it was brought up. “Sin hadn't even been invented yet! It was a concept for some weird game She was planning. Angels don't sin; they desert, and they get punished for it.”

"Crowley, you’re being ridiculous.” He shrinks away just enough for Crowley to know it's working. “How could any of this be considered desertion?”

“Love is the death of duty,” Crowley quotes, knowing Aziraphale is up to date on pop-culture so long as it’s coming from a book, and should be smarter than he's acting.

Aziraphale visibly deflates into his side of the bench, his warm hands withdraw completely as Crowley gets to his feet.

“I'm going home, angel. Good night.”

Crowley's flat is just across the street; convenient, and not at all romantic or suggestive.

* * *

Crowley has a few days to put his thoughts in order before Aziraphale comes knocking, which means he has plenty of time to feel sorry for the way he handled himself. He hopes Aziraphale isn't _too_ angry with him for leaving like that, but the truth is that Crowley wasn't sure how long he could say no if he stuck around for him to press the issue. ‘No’ isn't Crowley's forte, and that goes double when it comes to indulging the angel's whims.

The greater truth, the one that keeps Crowley staring at his front door, waiting for Aziraphale to come looking for him, is that he _needs_ the angel in his life. Aziraphale—righteous, clever, _kind_ Aziraphale—sees the good in Crowley. On those terrible, lonely nights when Crowley had to carry out temptations he was less than comfortable with, it was the angel that kept him from forgetting who he really was. He can't afford for Aziraphale to lose that unwavering faith in him—the way Crowley lost his.

Which means that when the knock finally comes, Crowley is just about ready to fall to his knees with joy.

He swings the door open to find Aziraphale's gentle smile, not at all angry, but maybe a touch concerned. He's holding out a bottle of brandy.

"I don't want to intrude, but I've been feeling awful about my behaviour the other night, and I couldn't sit on it any longer." He raises up the bottle slightly. "Let's just say it never happened?"

"Of course," Crowley bumbles, feeling off-balance as he takes the brandy and steps aside. "Coming in? Or are you gonna make me drink this by myself?"

"Wouldn't that be a sad waste of good brandy," Aziraphale smiles, and crosses the threshold.

It doesn't take long for them to finish off the bottle and move on to whatever else Crowley has on hand. Drinking together in Crowley’s flat feels like getting away with being in a space that was once forbidden. It’s like being stuffed in the back of Aziraphale’s bookshop, but without having to look over their shoulders the whole time, or a classroom without a teacher in it, or driving through red lights without CCTV. It’s like eating an apple.

And the best part is that they can stay and drink and talk for as long as they want. Hell, they can run around in knickers and rouge their knees if they’re really lost on ideas. No one’s watching.

The world feels bigger, and conversation flows easily between them, snapping right back into place after that bit of tension—like it always does. The same, but different in a very important way.

Aziraphale makes a few more obligatory attempts at an apology, at which point Crowley takes the hint and offers up a sort-of-apology of his own.

"I shouldn't have left you like that," Crowley peers at him through squinty eyes, happy to be hiding behind his sunglasses. "Should've at least offered you a ride home."

"N-nonses. Nonsense! I read the situation poorly. No helping it." Aziraphale waves him off.

"Nah," Crowley insists, distraught for some reason, “‘s not your fault, angel. You—you _can't_ even do the wrong thing. Remember?"

"Wait. Hold on. No. Yes it is!" He gives Crowley his sincere, you-have-to-believe-me-because-I'm-smashed look. "You always gave me time to catch up with you," his voice wavers, spilling over with emotion. "I never stopped to consider that you might need time, too."

That raises a red flag somewhere in Crowley's tunnel-dark mind, so he changes the topic to something more traditional, in the vein of philosophical word-splatter and friendly ethical debate.

"Oi, so how about that Adam kid? Great kid, yeah? You think he'll make the Pearly Gates some day?"

"Absolutely. Well, probably."

"I like to think so. Would be a comfort, wouldn't it? Imagine him gettin' on with Jesus! Wouldn't that be something?!"

Aziraphale nods. "I never said this to anyone before—never—but do you remember," he pulls an inexplicable, pinched face, "that dreadful business with Noah?"

"Rain-bow," Crowley enunciates, rolling his eyes, and Aziraphale cringes at him.

"I was quite sore over that one, too. You were right, back then—about the children. Never sat well with me!" A weight seems to leave Aziraphale as though he's just come out of some sort of demonic confession box. "Too young to have done anything worth doing yet!"

"That'll be 20 'Hail Satans', a recitation of any Black Sabbath song, and ye shall be absolved."

"I beg pardon? Black Sabbath?" Aziraphale looks concerned.

"Another one of my projects. Got too carried away with them; might've been drugs involved—no, not me—stop looking at me like that! The lead singer, just out of nowhere, chews the head off a bat! How does that happen?"

They laugh—Crowley because he was there and he still couldn't understand it, and Aziraphale probably because Crowley is laughing—then they fall into a comfortable silence. Aziraphale hovers in his perch on the one soft designer armchair in the flat, staring judgmentally at the empty bottles on the table, and Crowley drapes himself across the angular sofa and sighs.

“I’ve been thinking,” Crowley starts before he has a chance to stop himself. “It’s nice not having to check in with the Home Office anymore.”

“Hmph,” Aziraphale snorts into his wine. “Nice is one of those four-lettered words, isn’t it?”

“Shaddap! It’s fucking Nissse,” Crowley hisses, because he can. “What're you planning on doing with your new-found freedom, angel?”

“Now that you mention it, I don’t think I’ve gotten that far,” Aziraphale says seriously. “There’s the bookshop, of course, but all this time… I hadn’t really given it much thought.” He almost looks embarrassed.

“Well, if you could do one thing—anything at all—right now, what would you do?”

“I think… I would do exactly what I’m doing,” Aziraphale eyes him from the side, smiling into his glass, and Crowley’s face warms. “What about you, dear boy?”

“Honestly?” He stalls, wondering if he should sober up, and stifles another laugh.

“Wouldn't have it any other way.” Aziraphale gleams. “Come now, it can’t be that bad.”

Crowley takes off his sunglasses, places them on a side table, and puts his chin on one hand for support. Aziraphale is watching him like he’s something to be cherished, and it’s the best thing Crowley has ever felt. He finds himself wondering how warm the angel’s soft torso must feel when curled up against it, and how blissful a nap might be when taken beside him. It’s probably a lot like sunbathing in the tropics. What would be softer; Aziraphale’s skin, or a white sand beach? That’s what Crowley wants: to know what Aziraphale would feel like under his fingers.

“I—I want—” A haze washes over him, and Crowley struggles to find an ounce of wisdom in his two remaining brain cells. One of them ought to know if he’s making an arse of himself. “To go someplace warm and tropical, with you.”

Aziraphale’s lip quivers, or at least Crowley thinks it does, and the angel leans forward in his seat. His blue eyes look thoughtful and endlessly kind, even though Crowley knows the angel would sooner kick his customers out of his shop than sell them books, and that he thinks guns can give weight to a moral argument. It’s a specific kindness that’s reserved only for Crowley; a sort that can’t be emulated with polite words or a universal goodwill. Crowley basks in it.

It comes as a shock, though perhaps it shouldn’t, when his mind wanders further, imagining what lips might feel like when pressed against other lips. It’s not the first time he’s thought about it, but it’s the first time the thought has felt so itchy. Aziraphale catches his eyes, trapped on the angel’s smile, and glows fondly; as though he knows what Crowley’s thinking, and approves.

There’s a shift in the room, like gravity, and Crowley’s heart tries to dance to the pull.

"What was it like?" Aziraphale asks, very small and sad and gentle. "Falling?"

The thing about Aziraphale is that Crowley is pretty much an open book around him—you don't spend six-thousand years in the company of another human-shaped being without getting familiar with who they are deep down—it makes Crowley feel exactly too vulnerable and just the right amount of understood.

On most nights, in most situations, Crowley wouldn't have answered that question, and Aziraphale wouldn't have asked—but tonight, with the world so big and full of promise, he doesn't mind so much.

Confession is good for the soul, right?

"It's not nice," he starts, not knowing where to start. "There's the physical pain—wings burning, boiling sulphur—and then there's the things you took for granted before that are just… gone. Can't sense Love, or the other virtues; not like you can, of course. For a while I wondered if it was because I couldn't feel them anymore, but…" He gives Aziraphale a soft smile.

"Most of all," he continues while Aziraphale watches him, pouring out empathy in ways even a demon can sense, "it was that feeling of safety. Until then, all I ever knew was the bloody Divine Peace. Had my purpose stripped from me. Nothing was certain anymore, you know?"

"I'm afraid I do," says Aziraphale, distantly. "After the War, nothing felt safe ever again. I was horrified by what I saw…"

Crowley has the distinct impulse to wrap himself around the angel, but instead he sinks deeper into the hard cushions and sets aside his empty glass.

"Sh-sh-sh, come on. Best not think about it."

"Crowley, what could any of them… what could _you_ have done to deserve that? What was so much worse about you than—than… Gabriel?!" Aziraphale blurts out, and covers his mouth haphazardly, like he thinks he should regret saying it, but doesn't.

"Oh, please, angel—don't make me think of him while I'm sloshed," Crowley moans, and draws an arm over his face as a means of dealing with the mental image; _just shut your stupid mouth and die already_. Fuck Gabriel.

"Really though? You're so… you. How could being _you_ be a bad thing?"

"That's what I wanted to know!" Crowley huffs, flailing his arms in the air above him. "I asked Her a question, and apparently I wasn't good enough."

"Oh, my dear. I'm so sorry."

“‘s alright angel. It was a long time ago.”

"Do you ever regret it?"

He considers this for a while. In a way, Falling was exactly what he wished for, but it did nothing to rid him of the bitterness of being unwanted— _unworthy_ —for wanting to be his own being. All of that got so much easier when he found Aziraphale, and so much harder. But would he ever really regret giving God a piece of his mind? Would he have actually been able to stop himself?

"No," Crowley smiles. "I don't think I do."

The night wears on, and eventually Aziraphale decides he has books to rearrange (with the most confusing card catalog possible), so they sober up and Crowley drops the angel off at his home. On the drive back, Crowley has the unnerving sense of all being right with the world.


	2. Aziraphale's Question

###  **The Voice of God: The First Conflict**

I always wish my children the best, no matter how much trouble they cause. Lucifer loved stories. He told inspiring ones, filled with big ideas. Some of the other angels were captivated by his stories, but some weren't quite as comfortable with the implications. Rightfully so; Lucifer started believing in his own ideas, and things got a bit heated.

It shouldn't be forgotten, when recalling the War in Heaven, that conflict is part of a Good story. In a fascinating universe, where all things exist, there must exist opposing ideas. That's what moves a plot forward.

So when Lucifer asked himself, "Could I write something Greater?" —I gave him the opportunity to try.

What he doesn't know is that a Great story and a Good story are two very different things. He started a sub-plot to bring about the grandiose Ending to My story, but Nothing is what comes after an ending. It's very boring, and he wouldn't have liked it much.

After a bit of a sulk, he moved to Los Angeles, where he's learning to tell different stories now. Detective stories.

###  **PART 2: Aziraphale’s Question**

Crowley is tossing in his sleep, vaguely aware that he isn’t sleeping, when he’s suddenly forced upright; eyes full-yellow and wide. It’s past midnight on the fourth day of the New World, and a pulse ripples through London.

The pulse is not as strong as the one on the Antichrist's birthday, but it's undeniable all the same; like a stone being tossed into a lake, and Crowley is a fish. This time the stone is a pebble instead of a boulder, or the avalanche that came when Satan's army Fell, but he's attuned to it somewhere in his murky-black soul, just like every other demon on Earth or in Hell.

He's in the Bentley, cursing and speeding toward Soho before he can remember to miracle himself out of his silk pajamas.

"Can't be," he breathes between curses, raking a hand through his sleep-tangled hair. "That _stupid_ bloody—" He swerves around oncoming traffic and narrowly avoids biting off his tongue.

"It's not possible," he tries again, but that doesn't convince him, either.

The Bentley’s engine seems to pump in time with Crowley's heart, getting him to Berwick Street in 5 minutes less than his normal 6-minute rampage, but the seconds still feel like hours. The bookshop of A.Z. Fell & Co. isn't burning, but there's a lingering taste of sulphur in the air when he gets out.

Storefront bells chime as Crowley races in, and he tries not to think of how the motions make him relive the last time he ran into the bookshop.

"Angel?!" He uses that word specifically—belligerently—heading straight for the back room.

There's a whimpering sound, and the thud of weight dropping on wood, and there, in the middle of the floor, having fallen out of his reading chair, is Aziraphale. He's surrounded by book bindings and loose pages and charred feathers, bracing himself against the arm of the chair.

Crowley feels the world drop from under his feet.

The angel seems so far away; like Crowley is staring down at him from across an ocean of time—from before Eden—when the world was new and Crowley had just lost his innocence. Aziraphale’s head is tucked down and his wings spread out limply against the shelves behind him, glowing black like cigar ash and filling up the empty spaces of the room. Crowley can't see Aziraphale's eyes from this angle, but he spots the telltale shaking and uneven breaths of someone too overwhelmed to cry.

Crowley is furious.

"Aziraphale!" He rushes to the floor, coming down hard on his knees, and spins Aziraphale around by the shoulders. "Aziraphale, say something!"

The angel hangs his head, despondent, so Crowley shakes him once.

"For Heaven's sake, say something!"

When Aziraphale tenses up, genuine panic sets in. Crowley doesn't know what to do. He wants to tear something apart, dig himself a hole to crawl into, and turn back time. He can do that, can't he—if he really tries?

"Please, angel! Say _anything_ ," Crowley cries, fingers hooking into him.

Aziraphale breathes out a deep, rattling sigh, and something inside of Crowley breaks.

He turns his face upwards, and—because he needs _someone_ to blame—he snarls, "You FUCKING TYRANT! You selfish, egotistical bastard! How was _he_ not good enough for you?!"

He pulls a foot up underneath himself, ready to bolt or knock down shelves. He has to get somewhere, he has to do something. Someone needs to p—

Aziraphale's soft, manicured hand snaps around his wrist, and Crowley loses his balance and flops onto the floor beside him.

Crowley blinks. _Shit_. This isn't a time to lose it. What—was he just gonna run off and wrangle God Herself out of the Heavens, right when Aziraphale needs him here— _now?_

"No," Crowley says, more gentle this time. "No, you're right. I won't leave. I—."

Aziraphale's hand squeezes him. _I hear you_ , it says, and suddenly Crowley knows exactly what he's going to do. With a steady breath, he snakes an arm beneath Aziraphale's wings, and pulls the angel toward him.

"I'm gonna get you up off the floor, right? You've got a bed somewhere upstairs? Must have."

Crowley isn't sure he can actually carry Aziraphale's full weight if he has to, but as they rise the angel's legs stretch out beneath him, taking part of the load. It's a bolstering sign.

He catches a glimpse of Aziraphale's face as they go. It has a peaceful quality that Crowley doesn't expect; a sort of determined calm. There's redness to the lining of his eyes (still blue, still human-shaped), but no twinging or twisting to his features. Tired, strained, but certainly nothing demonic.

Something about him feels like strength—or at least inspires the feeling. It's not the kind of strength that wields a sword, but the kind that gives one away against orders. Crowley readjusts the angel on his shoulder, and finds surer footing.

They make their way slowly to the second floor. The door at the landing groans from disuse when Crowley flicks it open. He's hit with a wave of dust and the smell of cold and damp. There aren't any books up in Aziraphale's meager 'living quarters', giving a clear indication that the space hasn't been used since the bookshop was established.

It takes a minor miracle for Crowley to find the bed, but with a snap of his fingers the room is clean, and fresh linens have tucked themselves into place. He eases Aziraphale, now dressed in a comfortably modest nightgown, down onto his side making sure not to crush his wings. There's just enough space on the single mattress for Crowley to sit next to him.

He runs a hand through Aziraphale's hair, and the angel stirs. Life seems to come back into his eyes, his pupils blown wide, and he focuses them on Crowley.

"I've got you, angel."

"Crowley…"

“‘s alright. I know sleep's not your thing, but, well— if you need anything… I'm here, anyway." He pats Aziraphale's hand, and moves to pull up a chair, but Aziraphale grabs for the loose fabric of his nightshirt.

"That," Aziraphale whispers, voice scratchy, "hurt more than I thought it would."

Crowley wrestles down the impulse to shout. _You bloody moron, you're_ damned _right it hurts! Why did this happen, angel? What did you do?_

There will be time for all that later.

"Shut it," is what comes out instead. It's not nice, but it's the best Crowley can muster.

Another fit of tremors passes through Aziraphale and his face pinches.

"Just relax," Crowley says, mostly for his own sake.

Seeing him like this, so vulnerable despite all of his strength, it's too much. Crowley slides to the head of the bed and gathers Aziraphale into his lap, then leans back to hide his naked eyes. For the first time since his Fall, Crowley wants to be forgiven.

If this is what he gets for asking questions, he'll take it all back. _You hear me, up there? Undo this one thing—I promise I'll never ask you anything again!_

Aziraphale is so pure. So Good. He's the only creature in existence that can selfishly overindulge while being absolutely innocent. God has to know that. He’s the only one kind enough _—_ stupid enough _—_ to care about a demon.

Crowley’s eyes sting; _What did I do to him?_

Choking back the thought, Crowley resumes weaving his hands into Aziraphale's cotton-flower hair (white and fluffy, and how did Crowley not know his hair would feel like cotton?)—repeating the motions like it's a habit he's always had. He can feel sorry for himself later, when his best friend isn't piled up in a heap against his side.

Gradually, the shaking stops. Crowley can't say for sure, but the angel's breathing seems to even out into a sleepy rhythm, so he kicks off his shoes and sinks further down the headboard.

In a way, holding Aziraphale like this is amazing; like holding a beam of light. The fact that it's been forced to the surface in this bleak context hardly even seems to matter for how significant it feels. Crowley wants to curl around him, somehow shelter him from whatever waits in the morning. He wants to drown his own feelings of guilt in that musty, book-leather smell of Aziraphale's neck. He doesn't want the angel to lose a single scrap of the well-mannered radiance that makes him _Aziraphale._

How can he hold on to sunshine? Is it something like shaping stars?

A lump in his throat tightens, and he sighs deeply to rid himself of it.

"You know," Crowley says to the dark room, "I would’ve never gone to Alpha Centauri without you. Never. Couldn't do it. Imagine me trying to live in some world that didn't have you in it? Wouldn't have worked."

_I can't lose you, angel. Don't hate me for this. God—_ he cringes and wipes the name from his thoughts _—fuck knows I can't handle you hating me._

Aziraphale squirms, stretching an arm over Crowley's waist.

"Shh, I'm here. I know," Crowley soothes, and Aziraphale seems to nuzzle back. It's the most natural thing in the world to care for him like this. "You're going to sleep this off, ok? And it'll be fine."

_I'd give anything to have you wake up here with me, white-winged and indignant, grumbling about sharing a bed. Cuddling,_ Crowley thinks, and it doesn't feel wrong. _You could gripe at me all you like for it, and then we'll go out for kebabs. My treat._

Aziraphale's wings twitch with dreams, then fold into his human shape and disappear.

"I'll fix this." Crowley leans over him, pulling up a blanket. "I'm not going anywhere."

* * *

At some point, Crowley must have drifted off. He wakes to find himself tucked neatly into the bed, with Aziraphale nowhere in sight. His first thought is that maybe it was all a dream (or nightmare, more like) but the tartan bedspread begs to differ—he sure as Heaven didn’t miracle _that_ into existence.

His second thought is more like an Eldritch-abomination of feelings and sounds than anything coherent, swarming around one focal point:

Where is Aziraphale?

Something in the back of Crowley's head whispers that he's overlooking some very important details in his immediate surroundings, but he ignores it to toss the covers back and hop to his feet.

He makes his way downstairs and searches the kitchenette for signs of life. There's no kettle on the burner or book on the counter where the angel prepares his cocoa. In the back room, near the potato of a computer that Aziraphale does his finances on, there's no frock coat on the hook. The reading desk is empty, and the mess of feathers has been cleared away.

"Aziraphale, you in here?" Crowley shouts into the shop front with little hope.

Aziraphale is gone.

A wave of terror sinks into him, and Crowley does the next rational thing he can think of; he miracles himself into something presentable and sweeps out onto the streets of Soho.

He goes by row after row of shops, playing a game in his head called What Would Aziraphale Do, and he realises very quickly that the best way to win this game is to follow his nose.

What scent wafting in the damp morning air smells the most edible?

He almost doesn't notice, as he turns a corner, the unmistakable tans and whites of his best friend standing at a coffee shop checkout, but his eyes are trained to spot the angel from miles away—and there's also Crowley's miraculous ability to find Aziraphale at just the right moment. It's worked for thousands of years, so following holistic probabilities, and their dire situation, he was bound to run into him sooner rather than later.

Crowley enters the shop and queues up behind him, taking a moment to assess the situation before jumping in.

"That'll be 10 pounds, 79 pence please," the barista across the counter (Lizzy, according to her name tag) drones.

"That's for both orders, yes?" Aziraphale asks primly, not having noticed Crowley quite yet.

The barista shrugs, "Yeah."

"Fiddlesticks! It seems I've left my purse at home," Aziraphale feigns, painfully, and Crowley knows exactly what's about to happen. He would be sickened by it if he weren't so blessed _relieved_ to have found him in the first place.

"But what's this—" The angel reaches across the counter. Lizzy the Barista looks like she's reconsidering store policy on violence against customers, and Crowley can't blame her.

"—you've got something behind your ear!"

Coins spill out of the angel's sleeve, and clank all over the countertop, a good portion ending up on the floor.

_Sure, he'll miracle the money into existence, but won't go the extra mile to perform a decent magic trick_.

"Oh dear," Aziraphale says, and bends down to pick up the coins on his side of the counter, backing straight into Crowley.

Lizzy sighs the sigh of someone who has been working the same job for far too long, and starts counting the small mountain of change. Crowley can sense the Wrath clinging to her, and it sits uncomfortably on his conscience that Aziraphale might sense it too.

"So sorry, how clumsy of me," Aziraphale turns to face his blunder, but then his eyes go wide. "Crowley! What are you doing here?"

For a moment it's just another day, and the angel is indistinguishable from his usual self. No scaly face or funny hat or sudden affinity for dark clothing—all things Crowley has come to associate with the essential demonic aesthetic. It's as though last night never happened.

The impending _doom_ that Crowley hadn't realised he was carrying lifts for a momentary fluttering of _maybe-it's-ok_ before it nosedives right back to _probably-not-ok_ again.

"Looking for you, of course. What are you doing?" _Besides embarrassing yourself_.

"Finding us breakfast. Didn't you read the note I'd left you?" Aziraphale straightens out his waistcoat and hands over the runaway coins to the barista.

"No…" It's Crowley's turn to feel foolish.

Aziraphale looks down at his disheveled neckline, and back up to his shaded eyes.

"Did you rush here in a panic, my dear?"

Crowley promptly ignores him, and pretends to scan the overhead menu.

"So, what did you order for me?"

"Espresso, dark." Aziraphale smiles in a way that says, _just the way you like it_ , and that fluttering in Crowley's chest gets a short-lived resurrection.

"Sir, you're short a pound, 34," the barista says, flat and tired and not caring at all that she's interrupting an obvious moment.

"I've got it." Crowley fishes through his pocket, spurred into action by Aziraphale's smile. "Here, keep the change."

Lizzy looks thoroughly unimpressed with the both of them. "Your order will be ready in a moment, Mr. Fell."

"Thank you kindly," Aziraphale crinkles his nose at her, then takes Crowley by the elbow and pulls him toward the tables.

"I hope you don't mind my running off like that, but you looked so peaceful, and I was feeling a bit peckish after—" he hesitates "—well, that _ordeal_."

"That's an awfully light way of putting it," Crowley huffs, but his eyes are fixed to the hand on his arm; so effortless and warm.

"No use crying over spilt milk."

They sit down at a booth together; side-by-side, rather than across the table as though caught in some covert game of chess. The same side—last night puts a new meaning to that.

"Aziraphale," Crowley nudges his shoulder, voice low, "you're… you're alright?"

"Tip-top form," the angel chimes.

"Care to explain what happened then?"

Aziraphale takes a sudden interest in the wood grain pattern on the table; he looks _guilty_ , if Crowley's reading him right.

"Sirs!" Lizzy calls from across the room. "Order for Mr. Fell!"

Aziraphale perks up. "Would you mind getting that for us?"

Crowley glares at him through his sunglasses, but gets up anyway.

"Sure, sure. Whatever you want, angel," the last word comes out a bit strained. Aziraphale squirms in his seat, making Crowley immediately regret his tone.

It’s just… why isn’t he taking any of this seriously? Crowley's Fall was traumatizing at it's better moments. He came into this prepared to guide Aziraphale as best he can, but the angel seems unfazed.

It's possible this was coming all along, and Crowley just didn't want to see it. Aziraphale always had an inclination toward doubt and hedonism. In some ways, he'd make a better demon than Crowley.

It begs the question, how well does he _really_ know his best friend, having had to keep him at arm's length for so long?

The barista turns away before Crowley can pick up the order, busy with a new customer. He's surprised by the contents of the tray; two coffees (one a dark espresso, and the other a caramel latte), and piece of tiramisu. Not Aziraphale's usual spiced tea and blueberry scones.

It probably means nothing. Aziraphale tries new things all the time. He's just never been one for coffee before.

Coffee doesn't turn a person evil, Crowley reminds himself.

When he returns to the table, Aziraphale is wearing a clever smile, something that comes across as more genuine than his trademark humility. Crowley plops down their tray, managing not to spill anything, and slides back into the booth beside him with a knot in his stomach.

"I suppose I do owe you an explanation," Aziraphale says, reaching for his items. "I hadn't intended to have this conversation in public though."

"It can wait."

Crowley sips at his espresso, and Aziraphale takes a hearty bite of tiramisu before washing it down with his latte. There's rarely ever been awkward silences between them, not for thousands of years, and still rare before that.

This silence is deafening.

Aziraphale sighes in a satisfied way after a few bites of the sickening-sweet cake, and hazards a glance at Crowley.

"Thank you, for last night, by the way. For being there."

There's that guilty look again.

Crowley is always honest with Aziraphale. Last night doesn't change that. So he owns up to the fears swimming through his mind.

"I can't help thinking you knew this was coming."

"In a way…" Aziraphale trails off.

Right; public space. Not so great for a heart-to-heart.

"So," the angel puts on a plastic smile, "how does this demon business work?"

Crowley shrugs.

"Works about the same as the other side." He considers it for a moment, forcing down the rest of his espresso. "You've performed enough temptations to know the ropes—not that we have to worry about any of that now. No employee oversight."

"Should I pick a new name?" Aziraphale bounces his fork as he speaks, hands as animated as his voice. "Something hip and edgy—Israfil! Or Stolas…"

He puts on a show of thinking it through, scrunching his brows in a way that could be adorable if Crowley weren't morbidly uncomfortable with the subject.

"I know! Azithoth! It has a certain bookish quality to it, don't you agree?"

"Aziraphale's fine with me," Crowley grumbles.

"Oh, don't get out of sorts. I was joking."

"Bad timing, angel."

Another silence passes over them, and Aziraphale pokes at his tiramisu.

"You're right. I just thought I might try to lighten up the mood."

Crowley lets out a steady breath. The air between them is stifling, in a way it hasn't felt since the 1800's, only this time it's Crowley who feels like running.

But if there's anything he's learned over the years, it's that Aziraphale's friendship is worth swallowing his pride every now and then. Everyone makes mistakes.

"You can change it," he concedes. "If you really want."

"Hmm?"

"Your name, I mean." Crowley's cheeks burn with something hard to distinguish. "Was a bit rude, biting your head off like that, when I've changed mine three times now—twice since I met you."

"It really was a joke. I didn't mean to be insensitive." When Crowley meets his eyes they are sincere and full of depth. "I know it's a personal subject."

Crowley is about to tell him it's fine, and that, at another time, in another context, it would probably have been a laugh—when the generic whiny music playing overhead switches to a static overture of screaming voices. Aziraphale drops his fork. No one else around them seems to notice, but Crowley can recognise the symphony of Hell instantly.

"Good morning, Crowley," a buzzing creature speaks, invoking an image of corporate despair and endless paperwork. "It'z time for your wake up call."

"Beelzebub?" Crowley chokes, despite having nothing in his mouth. A conditioned chill grips his spine.

"That'z Lord Regent Beelzebub," the demon draws out over the wall mounted PA system. "Prince of Hell and acting Sovereign of the Damned."

"Lord Regent? The fuck?" Crowley doesn't like the sound of that.

"Long story," the Lord of Flies audibly waves off Crowley's comment, its voice monotonous. "Not why I'm here. It'z a day for celebration, izn't it?"

There's a sickening drop in Crowley's stomach. Aziraphale grips his hand under the table and gives it a squeeze. Crowley has to fight every nerve just to hold his composure.

"Demon Azziraphale, let me be the first to welcome you into the employ of Satan'z Army."

"Hmph," Aziraphale replies with a dispassionate snort, his chin held high-and-mighty.

_They can't have him_. Crowley grips onto the hand in his lap, and stretches himself out in the booth as if to claim the space around the angel.

"Crowley," the voice continues, "in light of your recent achievement, I've come to offer you a pardon. Orchestrating the first angel to Fall since the War—commendable work. You've earned your way back into Hell's Bad Books."

Not the sort of congratulations you hear every day. Good job, got a nice position in Hell for you, cheers!

He hopes to _Someone_ that Aziraphale doesn't believe a word of it.

Crowley sneaks a glance to the side; Aziraphale is taking a defiant sip of his latte.

"You're even up for review on a promotion," Beelzebub drags on. Crowley is hardly even listening at this point. "How about that? Office with a view?"

"I'd rather choke on holy scripture," Crowley mumbles, gritting his teeth.

"What waz that?"

"I think," Aziraphale speaks up, clipping his foam cup onto the table, "my friend here is trying to say that you should very kindly fuck off."

"Aziraphale…" Crowley feels a pang of fear-admiration-pride. It's an overwhelming blur of a feeling that begs him to either grab the angel and flee or press him into the nearest surface with his lips. The end effect leaves him staring dumbstruck.

The demon prince goes quiet for a moment, letting the tortured voices of Hell permeate through the coffee shop's atmosphere.

"A shame," it eventually concludes. "Not to sound dramatic, but that waz our final offer. Could've provided you with some protection. Hell's not the only interested party in your little… publicity stunt. Consider yourselvez warned."

The background screaming blips off, replaced by the dreadful mewling of auto-tuned vocals, and a lurking presence seems to dissipate around them. Life returns to the coffee shop.

"Well, that's one way to ruin my appetite," Aziraphale quips.

"Back to your place then?"

"Quite right."

On the way out, Crowley turns over his empty cup to toss it in the recycling bin, and notices black marker on the bottom:

_Just kiss him already._ _—Lizzy_

* * *

They walk back to the bookshop with their fingers laced, and for once it doesn't feel at all strange to Crowley. Aziraphale seems to pull him in his wake, sure of himself in a way Crowley has never seen before (or perhaps never noticed). The Aziraphale that Crowley knew before the Apocalypse would have been stumbling over his every word, too set in his bull-headed loyalty to Heaven to take a stand… at least up until a point.

His loyalty to Good—the real, it-takes-an-apple-to-understand-it Good—won out in the end.

The more that thought settles, the more Crowley seems to discover an underlying fearlessness in the angel—his appointment as a Guardian of Eden suddenly makes sense. It was always in him; just waiting for _something_.

When the door chimes shut behind them, they naturally make their way to the back room, as they have so many times in the past. It's a sanctuary in a way that Crowley's never-lived-in flat never could be. If Crowley tries really hard, he can imagine sensing Love here.

"Cocoa?" Aziraphale asks, guiding him down onto the sofa—a space shaped just for Crowley in Aziraphale's home.

"No," Crowley says, bewildered by the paradigm shift he's caught in the middle of, "thank you," he adds, because it feels right.

Aziraphale takes his customary seat in the reading chair, angling it to face Crowley. His eyes go slightly hazy as he prepares himself for the conversation, and Crowley waits to let him start at his own pace.

"I want to begin," Aziraphale breathes in, and meets Crowley's gaze, "by clearing up what I can assume is a major concern of yours.

"You should know that none of this was your doing," he flashes a fond smile. "I know what Beelzebub said, but they're wrong about you. They always have been. As a matter of fact, I'd prefer right now to establish that my Falling isn't something I mourn—at least not anymore than I mourn the loss of Heaven's influence. It's… an adjustment."

Crowley returns the smile with a nostalgic grin of his own. "’s not so bad once you get used to it."

That feels different to say now, too. Much heavier than the last time he joked at the angel's expense.

"Oh— _you_ ," Aziraphale huffs.

"But why?" Crowley presses.

He didn't tell Aziraphale this before, not in so many words, but he never _meant_ to Fall. It's a different question from whether or not he regrets it. Aziraphale always seemed so perfect as an angel, reflecting everything Crowley wasn't allowed to be as a demon. Aziraphale made him feel _seen_ , even though he had to hide his softer qualities. And yeah, there was a bitterness in him, but Aziraphale saw past that too.

He'd like to write that off as Aziraphale being a good angel, but they both know that's utter bollocks. Good angels don't sympathise with demons.

"I never wanted that for you." Crowley shakes his head, not sure how to convey everything he's feeling. "Why did it happen?"

Aziraphale seems to consider his next words carefully before he opens his mouth again.

"Demons remember what it was like to be an angel, my friendship with you has taught me that, but there aren't any angels who know what it's like to be a demon."

"So you were curious?"

"Not just," Aziraphale says, his eyes burning into Crowley, "but I do want to understand, Crowley. I want to understand why God did this to you. If that means I'm damned, it's just as well. I refuse to play the silent witness to your loneliness any longer. I'd like to stop pretending that your being a demon makes me any better than you. I accept it as my fate, too."

Crowley doesn't know how to respond to that. He takes his glasses off, folds them onto the side table, and pushes his hand into his eyes. He's surprised when he finds the edges of them wet and threatening.

"Oh, my dear!" Aziraphale gets up from his seat, and Crowley can feel him settle into the space next to him.

A hand reaches out to touch—no, to caress Crowley's shoulder, and he feels a quake run through himself. There's a dam in him that's been holding fast for so, so long, and it's full of cracks that Aziraphale has been boring into it little-by-little. The foundation shakes. He leans into Aziraphale, who slides an arm around to brace him.

"I'm so tired of second-guessing everything," Aziraphale murmurs into his hair, sheltering Crowley from every direction. "You, from the moment I met you, have been compassionate in a way nothing else in Heaven or Hell can be. You play at mischief, but what other angel cared about Jesus enough to show him the world? Who else protested the Flood with such certainty?"

"Which angel gave away a sacred sword so Eve could have a nightlight?" Crowley counters, feeling himself pouring out at the seams.

"Only to fret over it for the next century," Aziraphale laughs lightly, and it tickles Crowley's brow. "We didn't even understand the difference between Good and Evil back then, but there was nothing evil in you. Even when forced to carry out Hell's orders, you never enjoyed it when things went too far."

"You can't know that," Crowley tries, but it falls flat even to him.

Aziraphale's antique phonograph comes to life. No doubt the record set on it is something baroque or classical, but it plays The Velvet Underground nonetheless.

> “ _I’ll be your mirror. Reflect what you are, in case you don’t know_.”

Crowley can't believe what he's hearing. He only ever listened to _that_ song when he was absolutely sure he was alone.

> “ _I’ll be the wind, the rain, and the sunset. The light on your door to show that you’re home_.”

"I saw you in Rome, at that tavern after your temptation with Caligula,” Aziraphale explains, his hand moving in soothing circles. “Do you know how troubling it is to see a demon disturbed by their own work?"

Crowley can't deny that. He doesn't really want to anymore. He lets his hand fall away from his face, not bothering to hide what's so plain to see. The loosed hand tentatively finds its way to Aziraphale's waist.

> " _When you think the night has seen your mind. That inside you're twisted and unkind._ _Let me stand to show that you are blind_.”

Aziraphale sighes into his hair. "What made the difference, this whole time, was that you were free to question things. You even questioned Hell.”

> “ _Please put down your hands. 'Cause I see you_."

Crowley has to know. "What did you ask Her—God?"

Aziraphale brings his other hand to rest on the line of Crowley's jaw, easing his eyes up gently. A spike of fear runs through him for the briefest moment—he's so easy to shatter.

> “ _I find it hard to believe you don't know. The beauty you are_. _But if you don't let me be your eyes. A hand in your darkness, so you won't be afraid_.”

"I asked God what would happen if I loved you more than Her.” Aziraphale looks at him with such love Crowley can feel it echoing back from inside himself like a phantom limb. “I told Her I wasn't afraid anymore."

_This_ is what Heaven lacked when Crowley lived in it; not something all-encompassing, but something personal—something just for him. Here, with Aziraphale, he has never felt more safe.

He falls forward, and Aziraphale catches him with his lips.

Something like a spark, like the creation of gravity, pulls them together, and Crowley slides up to wrap around Aziraphale, changing the angle of their kiss without breaking it. He's filled with needs he doesn't quite understand, things that are almost human, that he's catalogued throughout his time on Earth from a distance, but it's laced with something bigger than anything he imagined. Surprisingly, or perhaps not, it isn't Lust.

He needs to be close, to feel Aziraphale burn him like a white sand beach. His hands act on impulse, feeling out the edges of his waistcoat, and Aziraphale breathes a sigh onto Crowley's cheek. It's the sweetest thing Crowley has ever heard, and he wants to hear more; he wants to compose music with Aziraphale's breath.

Aziraphale pulls back, not releasing Crowley from his hold. His lips look pink, and his eyes are smiling.

"Would you come upstairs with me?"

Crowley can't refuse; doesn't want to refuse, but there are some things he feels he needs to sort out before he agrees.

"Angel," he says, because it's what Aziraphale is, no matter what Someone Else may think, "I want to, but…"

But he's not sure just how human either of them have become in the six-thousand years they've existed here. Aziraphale took to Gluttony like a duck to water, but Crowley rarely ate (only in the angel's presence, when there was something worth celebrating). Aziraphale adopted books and Crowley adopted plants. Aziraphale possessed another body and didn't seem to mind it.

Before the Flood, some renegade angels bred the Nephilim, some demons spawned the Lilim. Crowley possessed a Roman Emperor once, and refused to take those kinds of jobs ever again.

He's still discovering everything buried underneath Aziraphale's skin. He has no idea what the little hedonist expects from him.

Aziraphale seems to catch the meaning in his hesitation, and gives him an inch of breathing room.

"My darling, it's alright. There's nothing I want from you that you don't want to give. I'll follow your lead, just tell me what you want."

"I want," Crowley breathes deep, and presses his forehead together with Aziraphale's, "to know what you feel like under my fingers."

* * *

Aziraphale pulls Crowley into his lap when they reach the bed. He runs his hands through Crowley's hair, and whispers sweet things into his ear. Things that make Crowley laugh and cry and melt into him.

Crowley maps out his warm pale skin, and learns what Aziraphale's musty book-leather neck tastes like.

It's not exactly how humans do things, but they are together here in a way that goes beyond the physical, and when they've exhausted themselves on exploration, they hold each other, side-by-side, and watch each other with wonder.

“Do you think it's a punishment?” Crowley asks, his fingers weaving into Aziraphale's black feathers.

“I think it’s ineffable," Aziraphale says, and kisses his nose.


	3. The Leap

###  **The Voice of God: Ineffable Things**

_God does not play dice with the universe_ , but I do have a sense of humor, creative curiosity, and a reasonable stance on autonomy.

In the Beginning, I hadn't designed angels and, by proxy, demons to _fall_ in love. Not in that pairing-off romantic-pining sort of way that humans do, anyway. Angels weren't designed to enjoy sushi either, and most demons are far more concerned with undermining My Creation than enjoying it.

Little miracles, like an angel sheltering a demon from a coming storm, are what change Fate more than any machinations of My Own. It turns out that being unique _together_ is just another way of falling in love.

I enjoy surprises.

Other things are meant to stay ineffable, though. Things like the freedom of choice in a universe with a benevolent God—or what I like to call the Greater Good—and the things that server it, like Death.

Creation casts a necessary shadow. To make something new, it's often required to destroy something old. Without that cycle, Everything would be just as boring as Nothing (you have to trust Me on this one). The in-between, before a soul's birth and after its death, is the ultimate ineffable mystery that holds the rest of the plot together. It's what some might call a necessary evil.

I think, to really appreciate Life, that the meaning of Death is a necessary question.

###  **PART 3: The Leap**

The view of London is breathtaking from so high up, Crowley thinks, as he sits on top of the tower of Westminster Cathedral the next morning. The new sun is bringing light to the crevasses of the city, pouring over St. James Park, and into Mayfair, and caught in the distance on Soho. Crowley feels like he can see his whole world from here, knowing Aziraphale will be opening his bookshop at any moment and expecting him back—expecting him _home_.

It's been a week since the Apocalypse, and less than one full day since Crowley rediscovered paradise, and he's found himself drawn to this place for a reason he can't quite put into words.

To say he's troubled by the thinly-veiled threats of his former employer would be an understatement. Maybe it's the unrest that brings him here, or the kind of desperation that only comes from having something to lose.

His eyes, reluctantly, raise Heavenward.

"Look," Crowley says to the dawn, "I don't do this sort of thing, and I can't exactly go inside to do it."

The sky is silent, regarding him from a distance.

"You and I both know the real war is only beginning. I suppose You might be proud to see Your first children getting along so well again, but Your second bunch… I don't think they'll be prepared for it when it comes."

It's going to be Earth versus all of _them_. Crowley sees it coming in the same way he can imagine the birth of stars, knowing exactly what components go into making them.

"It would be awfully convenient to everyone if You could come down, once in a while, and set things straight for a bit. They're all just looking for guidance." Crowley can sympathise.

"Just a hint would be nice… to know if we're doing the right thing."

He's not sure what he expects when he leaves, but he has the uncomfortable feeling that the sky isn't as deaf as it pretends to be.

* * *

What Crowley doesn’t really expect, as he drives past Berwick Street, are the soulless eyes and milky decay of Hastur guarding the door to Aziraphale's shop.

Crowley shrinks into the driver's seat, hoping the other demon doesn't spot his Bentley (which might seem like a stretch, but Hastur isn't known for his observational skills) and pulls into the nearest alley.

_Fuckfuckfuckfuck_.

Aziraphale is in there, with who knows what else— _who_ else. A whole myriad of Hellish images run through Crowley’s mind.

He has to _do_ something.

"Fuck!" Crowley's knuckles blanch on the steering wheel.

He has to get in there.

The car door snaps shut behind him, and his heart jumps into his throat at the sound of it. When he steps out into the street market—just waking to the daily bustle of comers and goers—Crowley slouches a little more than usual and does his best to blend in with the crowd.

Hastur is scanning the scene, searching for someone, and Crowley has a pretty good idea for whom. Clearly the other demon wants to make sure whatever's going on inside goes on uninterrupted, which causes what is absolutely the worst crushing feeling imaginable in Crowley's gut.

He picks up a cantaloupe and pretends to examine it at the stand on the far side of the street. He needs a plan, but his mind is a blank canvas titled White-on-Lily-Livered-Horror, and his imagination has stalled on the thought of what might be happening inside of his home.

_Someone_ knows he's no good at violence. It took a long-thought-out trap and a good deal of chicken-shit desperation to do what he did to Ligur, and it's not like Crowley can miracle himself more holy water. A snake's first instinct is to slither into the nearest small, dark space and bide their time until the danger passes. They only bite when scared and cornered.

The cantaloupe falls from his shaking hands, smashing onto the pavement, and the vendor shouts, "You best be payin' for that!"

Hastur, Duke of Hell, fixes his empty eyes on Crowley and gives him a dirty frown.

There's a flash of recognition on Hastur's face while Crowley holds his breath, and then he's running.

"Crowley!" A rumbling shriek comes from behind him.

He doesn't stop to look back, but dashes past the umbrellaed stands and nylon tents, weaving between the groans of pissed off patrons.

_Shitshitshitshit_. He should have known he would botch this up from the get go. Why did he get out of his car without thinking it through first!

—he knows why. He only hopes this distraction might give Aziraphale a chance to get the Heaven out of there.

After he's put some decent ground between him and his ex-manager, Crowley dives into a tent advertising exotic pet supplies, waves a quick miracle at the owner, putting them on hold for the time being, and shifts forms into one of the terrariums, looking to all the world like an unassuming black python.

Hastur paces past the tent, and Crowley watches him go by with unblinking eyes.

"Crowley?" Hastur stops in his tracks, seeming to realise that his prey has given him the slip.

"You're not getting away this time!"

Hastur doubles back, twisting and turning to comb the area.

"We know your little secret, Crowley! I bet you think your clever, pulling a switch on us like that." Hastur stops, looks up at the pet supplies sign, and steps toward the tent.

Fuck! Just his luck that Hastur's having a stroke of common sense today.

Crowley stuffs himself tightly into the hollowed log inside his enclosure.

"We should have expected as much from your _angel_ friend," Hastur says, as though ‘angel’ is the most disgusting insult he can think of. "But we’ve got plans for the both of you now."

He tosses over a few water bowls, and almost smiles at a pacman frog.

"Crooowwley? Come out from where you're hiding, you snake!"

Hastur plods toward Crowley's terrarium, a Hellish slant to his brow, and bends down to look inside.

"Hello Crowley," he sneers.

If Crowley were human-shaped, he'd try to play it cool until he could spit in his face and hike it out of there, but as a serpent, all he can do is try to make himself look very big and hiss.

"You're not fooling anyone." Hastur reaches into the tank, and Crowley strikes.

His teeth sink into the demon's hand, which tastes as rotten as he smells, but Hastur is undeterred. He wraps his slimy fingers around Crowley's neck and yanks him painfully from out of his hiding place.

"Gotcha, you blighter!"

Crowley wraps around his arm, trapped and terrified and grasping for anything he can get a hold of to pry himself loose. Then, there's an awful _thwack_ , and Hastur's hand slips open.

Crowley looks up as he falls to the ground along with the demon to catch sight of Aziraphale shining down on him. He's brandishing a thick book—the appropriately titled _Buggre Alle This Bible_ —with an oven mitt shielding his hand from the holy text.

For all intents and purposes, Aziraphale is a noble knight, and Crowley is a very distressed damsel, and frankly, he's ok with that.

Aziraphale drops the book, a precious part of his misprinted bible collection, takes off the mitten, and reaches down for Crowley.

"Come, my dear. We haven't much time."

"Your book!" Crowley slithers up to his shoulder and gasps into his ear.

Aziraphale snaps at the bible, disappearing it off to someplace safe. He looks quite pleased with himself.

"Puts a new meaning to the term _bible-thumper_."

If Crowley were capable of rolling his eyes right now, he would.

"Where were you? Are you ok? Hassstur was outssside your shop! If he hurt you—" Crowley fumes, hanging himself around the angel's neck.

"He's paying for it dearly already," Aziraphale looks down at the comatose demon on the floor, "but don't worry. When I spotted him, I took the liberty of sneaking out the back."

_Clever, clever angel! I could kiss you right here._

"What do we do now?" Crowley asks, flicking his tongue on Aziraphale's shoulder.

Aziraphale shrugs and flashes a smile at the pet supply vendor, who miraculously pops back to life, blinking with wonder.

"Fine pets; snakes." The dazed shop owner nods at them, not seeming to notice the unconscious lump of refuse on the floor.

"Yes, thank you for your help." Aziraphale pats Crowley on his head (which is something you should never do to a snake you aren't familiar with). "I'll take good care of him."

Back out on the pavement, Aziraphale walks at a clip, leading them away from the main crowd.

"Where did you park the Bentley?"

"Just on the other side of the block—alley on the left."

"Good." Aziraphale adjusts his course accordingly. "I think we ought to lie low at your place until we can figure this out."

"Right."

Inside the Bentley, Crowley shifts back into a human-shape to take the wheel. In the rear-view mirror his eyes have gone completely yellow, no matter how hard he wills himself to remain calm. Aziraphale reaches into the glove compartment and hands him a spare set of sunglasses.

It's a small comfort, but it means so much.

Crowley doesn't stop to think that maybe, if Hastur came to Aziraphale's bookshop, someone else might have gone to Crowley's flat; he's in a panic. Truly, they both are, but Aziraphale is better at hiding it. So when they arrive shortly after to find the door to the flat wide open, Crowley nearly discorporates on the spot.

There's a Heavenly presence oozing from inside that has no right to be coming from a demon's den.

"This can't be good," Aziraphale frets.

Crowley pulls him back by his sleeve. "There's always Alpha Centauri."

"We can't keep running forever!"

In the current situation, Aziraphale's courage is brilliant, enviable, and completely infuriating.

"And what do you intend we do about it?!" Crowley flails his arms out to the side. He's ten second from begging the angel, one last time, to please see things his way. Just this once. "If we walk in there, it’s safe to say we’re not walking out again."

"You can always spit some Hellfire on them," Aziraphale gives a feeble smile, as though they could just _buck up_ and solve all their problems with a bit of murder.

Crowley paces down the hall, away from the hanging door, hoping Aziraphale will Just. Follow. Him.

“I was an artist, not a fighter. You’re the one they gave the bloody flaming sword!”

"Well, yes, but I never had to use it," Aziraphale shouts, rooted to the spot. "Especially not on another angel."

Begging it is then.

"Please Aziraphale, let's just go!"

The lights inside of Crowley's flat blast on to a degree of brightness he certainly hadn’t programed into them. It’s quite an eye-sore, but more than that, it’s blood-curdling.

"Are you two dullards going to make me wait all day, or do I have to see you in myself?" a melodic voice calls from inside.

It's too late to run. It's always too late, isn't it?

They enter together, Crowley flanking Aziraphale's shoulder, and turn down the hallway to find Michael sitting on the gilded throne in Crowley's office. The Archangel stretches their legs over the arm of the chair in a way that could rival Crowley if it weren’t for the repulsive Gracefulness in their posture.

"Horrible taste," Michael sing-songs, fingers tapping on their Celestial Smartphone. "Arrogance is what picks a chair like this for an office."

“Style is an acquired taste,” Crowley clips. “Not something your lot knows much about.”

"Michael!" Aziraphale steps forward, putting himself firmly between Crowley and the Archangel. His voice drips with plastic humility, "You could have given us a ring. Things getting on well in Heaven, old man?"

“You should have taken the deal from Beelzebub," Michael says, dryly, and slips their phone back in their suit pocket. "It would have saved us the trouble of having to get our hands dirty.”

“You should have saved yourself the trouble and left well enough alone, wank-wings.” If Crowley could kill with a look, Michael would have dissolved into angelic bouillabaisse right then and there. He briefly considers removing his glasses to try it out.

“Didn’t Beelzebub tell you? We set a nice little trap for you down in Hell, but it was all for nothing. Seems you two upset the natural order of things one time too many.”

Aziraphale clears his throat and, from what Crowley can tell at a rear view, seems likewise disgusted. “I hardly think that stopping the total destruction of God’s Creation counts as—”

"Aziraphale…" Michael says with a tone of pure pity, or piety—probably both, "Falling from Grace? We did warn you not to think so hard about it.

“But of course it was only a matter of time, hanging round the likes of him," Michael nods at Crowley.

"How dare you!" Aziraphale puffs his shoulders, seeming twice as broad as usual.

Michael only smirks in response, all Holier Than Thou and dripping with the kind of hubris that only Heaven can cultivate.

It's in that moment that Crowley hears something woosh.

He turns as Uriel flies down behind them, holding a pitcher of what can only be assumed to be the Holiest of Water. Crowley has two seconds, maybe three, before they fling the pitcher straight at Aziraphale's back—

—and Crowley doesn't have to think about it. His world ended once before, and he couldn't stop it. He wouldn't live through that again, anyway.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale cries out, but it’s too late.

Crowley _leaps_ , and his wings flare out to shield his angel.

If God has any Mercy at all, Aziraphale will walk away from this somehow.

* * *

The world is dark, and a bit floaty.

No, not a world. Something bigger than a world.

There's complete silence around him, in a way that can't be attributed to a simple lack of noise. This big place feels so small for it. Silence pushes and pulls here like a force of its own; a claustrophobic sucking sensation. Crowley's aware that he's no longer in a physical body though, which is fortunate because the force can't crush him this way. He wisps through this empty place, closed off to the reality of what it is. He's not sure how long he's been drifting here. It could be seconds or eternities.

Thoughts wash in and out of him, like he’s breathing in metaphysical concepts. He's just an idea now; just a Word, or a name—not Crowley, but it's ok that he's Crowley too. In fact, it's better. _Crowley_ is more true to who he became, back when he had a body. He picked it himself.

But then he jumped into holy water, didn't he? Why did he do that?

_Aziraphale_ , the silence reverberates, and Crowley opens up to the sight of a billion baby stars, all nestled in glowing clouds of red, orange, yellow, and green.

He's floating in the centre of a nebula. His nebula.

It's beautiful…

If only Aziraphale could see it like this, up close. Crowley shaped it with his own mind, dipped in ethereal finger paints, back before he knew a single painful thought. He could point to it and tell the angel, _this is who I was, once_ , looking at it like an old photo.

It's not who he is now, but Aziraphale is allowed to see this part of him. It's his past, and it helped shape him, and it wasn't all bad. Aziraphale should know about that.

But Aziraphale's not here. No one's here.

Unless… wait. What's that in the distance?

Crowley can't really control where he's floating, but he's on a path toward something. It looks like a table.

He pulls to it fast, like someone just focused the camera lens for him, and he sees there's a person sitting at the table.

A woman?

She's wearing something very old and futuristic, and a bit different than any clothing Crowley has seen on a person before. It’s got a lot of different colours in it, too. He can't really say if it's a masculine style or a feminine one, but it feels right to call her _she_.

When she smiles at Crowley, her silvery hair ripples toward the stars like it's suspended in water. Or maybe the stars are suspended in her hair? Anything is possible here.

_I've seen you before_ , Crowley thinks, _I used to know you_.

The most ridiculous laugh fills his head, and the Woman's eyes sparkle at him with amusement.

He feels like he's seeing Her for the first time. She's a nerdy-looking thing, like the kind of person who writes sci-fi romances and hosts cosplay D&D sessions—and in a way, he is—seeing Her for the first time, that is. She feels more humble now than She used to, but still terrifying and full of strength. It's as if She's aged in the best possible way.

Crowley tries to understand what She's doing here. The table in front of Her looks like it's made for playing poker, but he can't bear to look at the cards. It's a game She's playing with everyone, but the rules aren't something he's allowed to know, and that itches at him because he wants to know so many things. At this particular moment he wants to know why She brought him here…

And if She can do something to help Aziraphale.

His angel is still down there, with the holy water. Crowley wants Her to know that. He can't do anything about it from here, but he knows that She can.

_Please_ , he thinks. _Just this one thing_.

God shakes Her head, and the stars quiver around Her. It reminds Crowley of the plants at his flat, but that's probably not important.

She puts down Her cards and raises up one hand, palm stretched out flat, and blows a puff of light into him.

Crowley burns. He's sucked backwards, falling, falling, falling, just like he had in the Beginning. Her light is searing through his soul and ripping him apart to build something new, but this time he’s not afraid of it.

From a distance, through the pain, he can see that God has Her own wings. They're unfathomable in their scope; as black as Nothing and filled with stars.

* * *

The world is warm and solid, and it smells like musty book-leather.

Crowley can fit the entirety of the world inside of his wings, and hold it in his arms.

"Crowley!"

"Hmm?" Crowley sighes, and opens his eyes to Aziraphale's troubled face—the one he makes when he has no idea what's going on but he wants to take charge of the situation anyway.

"Your wings!" Aziraphale says with great concern.

"Yeah?" Crowley lowers them from their protective mantle around Aziraphale. The candescent feathers are hard to look at, but he knows the burning will fade soon enough.

They're back in the bookshop somehow, alone, and Crowley can _sense_ the Love radiating through the dusty old place. He never imagined it would hold this much of it.

"They're—they're—!"

He takes Aziraphale's chin in his hand and pulls him closer.

"Yeah," Crowley agrees, and leans down to kiss him.

* * *

At the end of the day, it doesn’t matter what colour Crowley’s wings are, or Aziraphale’s. They both know exactly who they are. How could they not when it’s so plain to see in each other’s eyes?

Now darkness draws around the edges of Aziraphale in a way that makes his smile shine brighter, and that’s all that really matters to Crowley.

Falling isn't about being unforgivable, he realises as he leads Aziraphale up to their room, or about forgiving God. Forgiveness, it turns out, has nothing to do with it. It’s a leap of faith—trust in himself. Gravity isn't so scary once he figures that out.

There's no fear or hesitation anymore. No more appearances to keep up.

He tells Aziraphale how much he loves him; how much he has _always_ loved him. He kisses the angel from head to toe, expressing wordless things that sound like, _I'm here, I've got you, I'm not going anywhere_. It's still not quite the way that humans do things, but it's unique to them, which makes it even better.

Crowley settles in to sleep wrapped around Aziraphale, because in some ways, he will always be a snake seeking out warm sand.

"Freely they stood who stood, and fell who fell," Aziraphale reads to him in bed, and it’s true.

Falling is neither good nor evil; it's an affirmation of freedom. Crowley has Fallen twice, but it never had to define him the way he let it; just as much as his given name didn't tell him who he was. Black feathers are as beautiful as white ones; instead of reflecting light, they hold on to the rainbow spectrum and call it _mine_.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on Twitter @kaeltale. Feel free to interact. I love talking about these Ineffable Sweethearts.
> 
> Title inspired by the song Gravity by Vienna Teng. "They've turned aside our stories of the gentle fall". I have been drooling over this song for years, and now it finally fits somewhere.  
> The end quote Aziraphale reads was taken from John Milton's Paradise Lost. 
> 
> If there are any other references I forgot to source, or tags I left out that need to be warned for, feel free to poke me about it in the comments.


End file.
